


Apathia

by LazyCatLad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyCatLad/pseuds/LazyCatLad
Summary: "Sherlock would always remember how color was drained from his view, starting by the edges. How the green grass, the blue sky, Redbeard's hair became a cold grey. Suddenly, he didn't feel anything anymore."_________________Sherlock has had a strange condition since childhood : he sees life in black and white, and only feels dull versions of emotions. He has long forgotten what joy, sadness or fear feel like, as well as colors. As he goes through life, content with his work and eventual shots of adrenaline, Mike Stamford introduces him to a retired army doctor at Saint Barts.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Apathia

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is more like an intro. The rest is coming along, I don't think I'll do much longer chapters. But who knows? Hope you enjoy it nonetheless :)

Sherlock's world turned black and white when he was eight.

It was supposed to be a day like any other. He was an ordinary child – well, as ordinary as Sherlock Holmes could be. Whatever was wrong with him was enough ; it justified the social isolation inflicted by his classmates. Mycroft used to be by his side and support him, once. But he had left to study abroad, and barely talked to his little brother anymore. That and the passing of his grandfather, a soft beekeeper with a warm voice and calloused hands, who Sherlock loved dearly... Life got heavy. His mother was busy a lot, his father oblivious. Sherlock felt tinier than most children. For reasons he didn't understand, it became harder to fall asleep at night. Sometimes, he'd feel like crying without a proper reason. 

But that day, well. That day, Redbeard died. 

Sherlock would always remember how color was drained from his view, starting by the edges. How the green grass, the blue sky, Redbeard's hair became a cold grey. As he was crying his eyes out over his dead friend, he felt agonizing pain. The inside of his chest was torn apart, like an explosion of rage that burned deep in his stomach, consuming him. And then, out of nowhere, it all stopped. Suddenly, he didn't feel anything anymore. 

He stood up. Redbeard's body was now only an inanimate object like any other. Finally free from his emotions, Sherlock went back into his home. He wasn't even scared when he mentioned it to his parents. He stated during dinner, inbetween two mouthfuls of chicken: “Redbeard died in the back of the garden. And I don't see colors anymore.” 

That night, he fell asleep immediately. His father brought him to the doctor the next day, who introduced Sherlock to a new word. One that would become another companion: apathia. 

"Apathia is a very rare nervous disease. It impacts both his neurological system and cognitive functions. Like in schizophrenia, strong emotional trauma can trigger the disease,” the man in a white blouse had explained. “Apathia is like an off switch: it turns the world grey by first attacking the pigment receptors in the eyes. It then numbs the hypothalamus, amygdala and limbic cortex.” Which were big words to explain that Sherlock would never feel any emotion, ever again. 

There were many tests to insure the diagnosis was right – and meet the curiosity of scholars. It was shown that Sherlock was no more capable of feeling fear. Instead, he'd logically estimate if a situation was dangerous or not, and choose what to do with that in mind. Sadness had vanished ; his empathy had faded. Only his sense of right and wrong kept him on a somewhat moral path. Tantrums and scenes showed he was still very much capable of anger and disgust, but the rest was mostly gone. Especially joy. No brain activity lightened up the scanners at the mention of a nice memory. No more dopamine during time with his loved ones, or while trying to make him laugh. Sherlock didn't laugh any longer. 

His parents tried many things to channel their disturbed child. His inability to feel most things were driving him straight to a hellish kind of boredom. Sherlock became a danger to himself when he was left with his numbness. There was nothing but anger to express the distress he felt, facing his grey universe. Deciding not to count on his now impaired vision, Mycroft came back from Italy with a violin. For a couple of years, it worked enough to become their only solution. 

It was hard to say if Sherlock felt much emotion while playing. But he did calm down and focus as he worked on his posture, tuning, rhythm and memory. Training the brain, that seemed like a good hobby. Sherlock read, and read again, and then some more. Anything he could get his hands on. He was hoping to one day store more data than a computer. Now that the emotions were gone, Sherlock's mind felt like a big, empty space. Ready to get filled by anything that would come his way. He found the only thing he could fight boredom with : hunger. 

_____________________________________________

None of what happened to him next was a surprise. The brilliant studies until drugs came in his life, trading anger for almost-sensations. The interest in crime, hunting every detail, unphazed by the gruesome methods murderers used. Getting a kick out of the cases' danger, chasing adrenaline, trying to feel anything at all. An obvious consequence was loneliness, despite pathetic attempts at relationships in his twenties. As obvious as his very deteriorated family bonds. 

He barely mentioned apathia again to anyone. People treated him with too much morbid curiosity. It got him a spot on the list of "myterious variations of human biology". Like vitiligo and albinism – with enough sociopathic tendencies mixed in that it still sounded a little scary. Ridiculous studies claimed to find cures, and the most annoying one always came back to his ears: 

“I read somewhere that apathia fades away when you fall in love,” Lestrade said once. Sherlock had almost punched him : he read the little crunch of the policeman's shoulders, and could spot a suggestion when he saw one. 

There were rumors of people “gaining their colors and feelings back” once they'd met the love of their life. Sherlock knew these were sentimental lies. Out of the very few cases of apathia, there wasn't enough data to claim anything. He preferred to not think about it, and be satisfied with living the rest of his life like this. 

_____________________________________________

Friday, January 29th, 2010. Most people disliked spending much time in hospitals, especially the morgue. But Sherlock wasn't most people. The blinding white of the rooms didn't bother him, nor did the knowledge that this was Death's pick-up point. He enjoyed the technology he could find there. If the only bother he had to face was the strange registrar who seemed to like him a lot, then he could handle it. He tried his best to be nice to her, but failed often ; he wished she would stop liking him for her own sake. 

He was having his own version of fun. Which meant two things : whipping dead people out of curiosity, first of all. In second place came sending texts to all journalists attending Lestrade's press conference. The latest “serial suicides” seemed fascinating, and he didn't want to miss a thing. But Mike Stamford messaged him, interrupting his game. 

“Have someone to introduce you to. -MS”.  
Sherlock frowned. How odd. People never introduced him to other people if they weren't insane. Intrigued, he replied:  
“Whoever they are, they'll have to come meet me. -SH”  
“Where are you now? Barts? -MS”  
“Yes. -SH”  
“We're on our way, then. -MS” 

Unsettled, Sherlock froze a little. “Well, someone's in a hurry,” he mumbled under his breath. It was especially strange since he'd seen Mike this morning. He abandoned his phone, and went back to the sample under his microscope. 

It didn't last long : Mike arrived about twenty minutes later. The man by his side wasn't noticeable by any means. “Bit different from my day,” he said, and Sherlock understood he was a doctor. Psychosomatic limp and military stance, army doctor. There was a lot to deduce here, and Sherlock smiled to himself. Someone for a flatshare, the one he'd mentioned to Mike earlier? That would explain his haste. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine,” he said to bother Mike more than anything else.  
"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike replied, ruining Sherlock's fun.  
“Here. Use mine.” 

The stranger had his mobile in hand, making direct eye contact with Sherlock. What a strong gaze, Sherlock thought for a fleeting moment. 

“Oh. Thank you.” He stood up and walked, scanning the man some more. Coming back from the front, tanned. Which front was the only question left unanswered, and of course, Sherlock was going to ask it.  
“He's an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said, and Sherlock was just about to ask “Afghanistan or Irak?”. It was just there, on the tip of his tongue. 

But John Watson's finger grazed his as he handed him his phone. Sherlock dropped it in what felt like slow-motion. 

He lost his balance for a second, going to lean on the table and making a few items fall to the floor. He blinked fast, breathing speeding up, panic overwhelming him. The lights were white, yes, but also very slightly yellow. The sample under his microscope was navy blue. The soldier, blonde, like Sherlock's mother. The frame of Mike's glasses, red, and his tie, an horrifying mix of washed-out green, red and yellow stripes. Both him and John were staring at Sherlock in concern. “Sherlock, are you okay?” Mike asked, rushing to help. 

John Watson's hand was holding him by the arm. Even through his clothes, this hand felt like it was burning him. Sherlock's head was killing him, blinded by the pigments attacking from everywhere. But Sherlock was a great liar. He quickly collected himself, and masked his terror under some simple agitation. 

“Yes, I'm fine. Dizzy spell. I must have stood up too fast,” he replied, voice hoarse, out of breath. His eyes were glued to that army doctor, who was staring at him just the same. “I'm sorry for your phone.”  
“It's fine,” John reassured him with a smile, going to pick up the device. “See? Even an old cripple like me can lean down.” 

How could one person get every feeling at once?

**Author's Note:**

> This little thing has been on my mind for a while. It's not going to be many chapters long, but I realized I couldn't do it in a one-shot. I'm not a native English speaker, so my sentences might feel a little awkward or not be exactly correct. Please, feel free to let me know in the comments so I can correct myself!
> 
> Apathia is not, of course, a real disease. It's been inspired by several real things - color-blindness and sociopathy mainly - but I'm not a medical expert and can't attest that I am depicting them correctly. I was mostly inspired by the classical Soulmate AU, but I have changed it a little so it has more to do with trauma, and less with just fate. Please, do tell me what you think about it all. Just a few words go a long way to encourage me! Thank you in advance :)


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